Except it turned out neither Management nor the Fae wanted this. As countless phone calls and emails went unanswered, and meetings were postponed or cancelled, Sam learnt the Ministry weren’t interested in change. She discovered the same situation in the Ministry’s Support and Operations departments: Doctors Hertz and Galler, respectively, conducted research into Sunken City biology and technology that was kept entirely in-house, despite having potentially world-changing implications.
The point of the MEE, Sam realised, was to maintain equilibrium. It was more true in Ordshaw than anywhere else, because the unusual elements under Ordshaw had extra potential to generate change. As far as she was aware, no other UK city had a subterranean labyrinth of monsters. But then, no one much spoke to her, so they might.
This belief made her ineffective position especially uncomfortable. Sam had resigned from her previous job at Lyndale Finance specifically to get away from the repetitive chores of completing spreadsheets, filing reports and silently enduring circular meetings. Such mundane work made her entertain the idea of joining the MEE. Managing the Sunken City demanded innovation, and she enjoyed being innovative.
Having been left with a dead duck in the IS department, Sam tried to find ways to extend her jurisdiction. She proposed language analyses, worldwide surveys and behavioural studies to better understand animal behaviour in the Sunken City, amongst a few hundred other ideas. The answer was usually the same: the MEE didn’t have specialist analysts or field agents to spare, as (in spite of their vast resources) they rarely hired new staff, due to trust issues.
Still, she tried. Four years at Lyndale Finance had taught her that this was simply the way the world operated; you had to make small changes where you could. At least in the MEE she had a title, and her own office, and a good wage. She didn’t want to rock that boat. It would just be nice to feel like her work mattered.
So, each week started with a new Big Idea. Last week, she had focused on the return of the vagrant boy Rufaizu, who was rumoured to be in town, even if no one could place him. He was of interest because his father, Apothel, had explored the Sunken City before his death nine years ago. She had canvassed the various locations Apothel had once frequented and suggested a handful of pubs and bars worth monitoring. Management accepted her suggestions with no enthusiasm, and explained that the search for Rufaizu had nothing to do with her. She sent a disagreeable email explaining that if Rufaizu had direct contact with the myriad creatures, it was of interest to IS. That email had gone unanswered.
By Friday, she had devised an idea for a funding application for improved phone lines in the office, assuming all communications came under her Relations title. This Monday, feeling fresh from her pre-breakfast run, she was going to nail it.
But she found a markedly unusual atmosphere when she came into the office.
Most Mondays, the bullpen on the sixth floor of 14 Greek Street, consisting of five rows of computers, typically staffed by no more than four people, was a slow-moving hub of chatter about the weekend’s television. Sam was usually one of the first in, giving her time to share pleasantries with the secretary, Tori, and to start mentally preparing her new ideas. This Monday, the analysts’ eyes were glued to screens and Tori was frantically fielding phone calls. People were busy and focused and it felt like Sam was late.
A rushed field agent told Sam that Rufaizu had surfaced on Friday. Surfaced, been captured by the MEE, shot by the Fae and finally hauled into their med bay on the fifth floor of Greek Street (a floor otherwise used for storage). The shocks stacked up from there, culminating in the dual disasters of a Ministry agent being killed in the Sunken City and a novisan energy surge, around 06.42 that morning, hitting a building with enough force to convince the residents it was an earthquake.
Sam had been a little slow to react herself. Her first (unvoiced) question was why on earth no one had told her about any of this. Admittedly, IS Relations had taken her away from questions of novisan, the largely unexplained energy source that the MEE struggled to measure across Ordshaw. But the questions novisan raised affected all of them. It was, after all, the driving force of the praelucente; it was the energy they used to keep track of its location, and to identify when it might have produced a positive surge. Her thought, as usual, was that something affecting the Sunken City in general had to involve IS Relations.
When she took it to her boss, Deputy Director Mathers brushed her off, saying she should wait for correspondence from the Fae Transitional City. Which would never come. Dr Galler, Support’s tech guru, said no, she could not look at the Fae weapon, not until he had done a detailed analysis. The Ministry were concerned that the morning’s surge might have been a reaction to the weapon being set off – possibly distressing the praelucente. But, just to doubly frustrate her, they couldn’t actually confirm it was a Fae weapon yet (let alone the rumoured weapon they called the Dispenser), so it shouldn’t concern IS. Dr Hertz, their biologist-slash-physician, meanwhile, said no, Rufaizu was in no fit state to talk. Her last hope had been to talk to the agents involved in the Sunday night events, but they had, incredibly, been sent home.
Mathers said he would get them back in, although he noted the agent who’d been closest to the action was Cano Casaria, and didn’t Sam have history with him? As if she needed reminding. She left it with him and studied Casaria’s reports about all that had happened.
That had occupied Sam until she noticed a couple of analysts laughing over an online video. Malcolm Joseph’s panicked charge into the street, claiming something spoke, gave Sam, and InterSpecies Relations, an excuse to actually do something. The interview itself, granted, wasn’t promising, but she was working on it.
On the way back from the discrete site of Maclolm Joseph’s questioning, Sam rehearsed in her head what she was going to say to Deputy Director Mathers. This was a major crisis and the exact words of what a civilian had heard were important. She needed to be allowed to expand her investigation, as they might be dealing with something new, or a sound emitted by the praelucente itself.
Sam stopped herself at Mathers’ door, nails digging into her palms.
She could organise a team to properly collate the weekend’s findings, to identify and keep track of this new sound. Then she would have the opportunity to explain the source of the morning’s tremor. They might, after all, be taking for granted that it was caused by this unusual weapon. She could do this faster and better than Operations or Support – she’d proved that often enough (in her own head, at least).
Sam knocked and waited for a response.
She knocked again.
“Yes, yes, come in already!” Mathers called out, as though she should’ve guessed.
He looked like he hadn’t slept, tie half undone and a few strands of greying hair loose across his brow. With him was a bulky field agent in a tattered suit. Landon. The agent’s over-large brown jacket was ripped and his shirt crumpled. His hair was thinning, and his skin textured with the gristle of age, making it unclear if his swollen nose and red eyes were injuries or the result of an unhealthy lifestyle.
“Agent Landon,” Sam greeted him. “Is Agent Casaria in yet?”
“Probably sleeping,” Landon said.
“I’d really like to talk to him.”
Landon didn’t seem interested, looking to Mathers to move things along.
“You can start with Landon,” Mathers said, reclining in his large leather chair. “I’m expecting a call from London, it’d do well to have Landon on hand for it.”
Sam was wary of her uncomfortable smile as she considered a tongue-twister involving Landon and London, to avoid getting annoyed at the promised phone call. In MEE parlance, London translated to the Raleigh Commission. Lord Tarrington, the Commission chairman and the titular director of the Ministry, liked to waste time brainstorming over the phone. He was one half of the Commission’s two permanent peers. The other, the elusive Lord Broderick Asquith, frustrated the office in a more novel way, by rejecting modern te
chnology and insisting on sending faxes – faxes! – to issue ill-informed but highly disruptive orders. Alongside the two permanent peers, the Commission had a rolling membership of some five to seven other government bigwigs who cast long-distance votes on things they had no expertise in. One of Sam’s unsuccessful proposals had been to limit the Commission’s ability to directly interfere with the day-to-day running of the Ordshaw office.
“Right, well,” Sam said, trying to recall what she’d planned to say. “Before we begin – about Malcolm Joseph. I established –”
“We’ve all seen the video,” Mather said. “I’m not sure you needed to meet him.”
Sam was momentarily stunned. Of course you’re not, you haven’t given me a chance to explain. “Um. Malcolm thought the words might have been Greg, you lost. Or locks.”
The men stared with equally empty eyes. Mathers said, “What I need, Ward, is for you to send another message to the FTC. Include whatever you think you’ve learnt this morning if you think it will help.”
“But it wasn’t about –” Sam started to explain.
“Shall we go through last night, then?” Mathers turned to Landon. The field agent gave her a look, checking she was done.
Sam revised the explanation: It was clearly a distinctive sound, enough for Malcolm to spot a difference in syllables. Something we should investigate fully as –
“We secured the device from the girl’s home,” said Landon, interrupting her thoughts. “The girl Rufaizu had contact with. Casaria had met her but hadn’t reported it. The girl –”
“This is Pax Kuranes?” Sam said. “The gambler?”
Landon nodded and continued, “Yeah. The girl –”
“Twenty-seven years old?”
“If you say so.” Landon didn’t see the relevance.
Sam thought accurately identifying the suspect might be important for finding her. Referring to a grown woman as a girl might send the wrong message. She didn’t say so.
“This girl had been talking with the Fae,” Landon went on. “We caught up to her yesterday, Casaria, Gant and me. My faeometer went off.”
“Did you see it?” Sam asked, worried he might neglect details there, too.
“No, I did not,” Landon said. “I saw the readings on my faeometer, and the girl ran, making the Fae presence seem likely. I saw the Fae weapon recovered from her apartment.” Landon straightened his shoulders, resisting looking at Mathers. Clearly they had discussed this next bit in advance. “There were no Fae at the Sunken City when I got there. None helping Casaria or the civilians. Whatever happened with them happened earlier in the day. The latest problem is unlikely to be connected to them.”
“Huh,” Sam said. In other words, no reason to involve her, even if everyone was talking about the damage a potentially Fae weapon had done. But she had expected that. “What Malcolm Joseph heard this morning – what if it’s a noise created by the praelucente itself?”
Mathers digested that. “That’s a question for Support.”
“Does it not –”
“We’re understaffed, Ward,” Mathers told her. His get-out-of-anything card. “Trust that their work is being prioritised properly. I believe you have plenty to be getting on with.”
Sam’s frustrated smile threatened to return. “Certainly, but my team can work –”
The phone chimed and Mathers put the call on speaker, waving at Sam to leave.
“Two incidents in the space of a week,” Director Tarrington said, not bothering to introduce himself. He had the drawn-out baritone of the eminently well-educated, a voice that sounded bored and disappointed at the same time. “It’s not on, is it?”
“Sir, thank you for calling. I’ve got –”
“It’s not a social call, Mathers, your city is on the national news again. You understand that babysitting the Ordshaw MEE is not my full-time occupation?”
But it should be, Sam thought. Nowhere was the MEE’s work more important than in Ordshaw, and their own director had a part-time attitude.
Mathers said, “Sir. I’ve got Sam Ward and Agent Landon here.”
“Ah, Ward,” Tarrington said. “You’ve had contact with the little wretches behind this mess?”
“Director Tarrington,” Sam said. “Sir, good morning.”
“Yes, yes,” Tarrington replied. “What are the buggers saying?”
Sam thought, you’d know better than me. She said, “They claim no knowledge of the device and no knowledge of the Fae behind the attacks.”
“Unlikely. But we’re not looking at all-out war? Buildings collapsing and all that?”
She found Mathers and Landon watching her expectantly. “No sir, it seems the Fae weren’t responsible for what happened this morning.”
“Very well. You’re a bright lass, so what’s your take? The praelucente’s unstable, is it? Anything we can take from it so far?”
“There was a sound –”
“It’s possible, sir” – Mathers cut her off – “that we heard the praelucente itself make a noise.” Sam stared, aghast. “It may have been caused by an injury, after the weapon was discharged. Our working theory is this morning’s surge was an attempt to recover.”
He’d been paying attention, at least.
“Excellent, Mathers, now that’s something I can sell. Things are back on track with the bonus of new observations. Good thinking.”
Sam blurted out, “We’re also exploring exactly what Agents Landon and Casaria saw for more insights.”
There was silence for a moment. Sam looked at the toes of her shoes.
“Casaria.” Tarrington tested the name. He must have known it from past HR crises. “Is he there?”
“No, sir,” Mathers said. “He was dismissed before the latest crisis.”
“For Christ’s sake, Mathers,” Tarrington huffed. “The man isn’t even on site?”
“Actually,” Sam said, not daring to look up but forcing the words out, “I was about to propose to Deputy Director Mathers that I retrieve him, seeing as our Operations team are fully occupied.”
Another stiff silence. Sam could feel Mathers’ unappreciative eyes warning her against this sort of initiative. To save face, he said, “A reasonable idea, sir. I’m happy to send Ward out into the field. Agent Landon, you’re without a partner, aren’t you?”
Landon and Sam locked eyes. It was a cold thing to say, knowing Landon’s partner had died only the night before, though that barely seemed to register on the big man’s impassive face. He was staring at Sam like he’d rather it be anyone else. The look she got from most of the office. Most of the time. She smiled back.
7
Barton’s idea of videos was actually a pile of movie reels requiring an ancient projector, which had been buried under crates of stones. Pax and Holly heaved the lot out of the way without receiving an adequate explanation for their existence. Once they’d dragged the projector back to the bedroom and left Rimes to tinker with it, they turned their attention to a map of Ordshaw that Barton had found in a box near the beds.
Pax spread it across a too-small table that would have been best cleared with a broom. The map was crumpled, beige, and faded, and smelt vaguely of urine. It was marked with fifteen circles drawn with a big red marker pen, and seven crosses in blue. They were spread evenly across the city, with more blue in the east and red in the west. The prospect of travelling through Ordshaw hardly filled Pax with glee, but she was willing to consider it as an escape from the looming threats of probing Ministry agents, unsavoury experiments and Barton family tension.
“The crosses are contact points,” Barton called out from the bedroom. “The circles are where we were sent for glo pickups. Mostly beyond Ripton and around Nothicker.”
“First point being,” Holly said, “this liquid turned up in the worst parts of town.”
“There’s one not far from you,” Pax said, noting the circle in Dalford.
“Whistler Bridge,” Barton called through, then continued like he
knew the map by heart. “West of that you’ve got the Weirway Reservoir. Below that, a subway near the east side of Lyle Square, that’s an active one. Then...central New Thornton, that was under a fire escape by the Portrait Gallery. One south of central in Tupsom. The one out west, the closest one to us here, that was by a laundromat in Ripton.”
“Who knew you were so well-versed in the lay of Ordshaw,” Holly said, to silence from her husband. Her malice hung in the air worse than the smell from Rimes’ broken jar.
Studying the points on the map, Pax pictured the locations. A bridge, a reservoir. The large bricks of the gallery wall. They were all strangely familiar. It gave her the same uneasy feeling she’d got seeing that dark-skinned man’s face in the news article; a dreamlike memory, or understanding, of something she’d never seen. Dreams worked that way, didn’t they? Maybe Barton had mentioned these places to her before?
It didn’t mean anything, not if she didn’t want it to.
Pax stood back and her own smell wafted up at her. She flapped her t-shirt to clear it. Shifting boxes hadn’t made her any cleaner. She ran a hand over her face and turned to the bedroom. She asked Rimes, “You got any spare clothes?”
“Oh yes,” Rimes nodded happily. Then paused. “Not really for women, though.”
Pax gave her a dumbfounded look, but Barton explained from the bed, “The spare stuff was meant for us, in case we needed to regroup here. Apothel, Rik, me.”
“And did you?” Holly asked bitterly, joining Pax in the door. “Regroup here?”
“Not often,” Barton said, quieter. “Grace, honey, check those boxes over there. Rik was slim, some of his stuff might fit you. Must be some shoes or something?”
“Perhaps,” Rimes said, focused on trying to spool the movie reel.
“You didn’t have digital back then?” Pax said. “Or video, at least?”
“Not as effective,” Rimes explained. “The atmosphere played havoc with Rik’s equipment, so the more basic the better.”
The Sunken City Trilogy Page 36